


At the Shrine of Margaret and Mary

by to_the_library



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Christian AU, F/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/to_the_library/pseuds/to_the_library
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Gwen's exile, Arthur is reminded of her everywhere he goes. He tries going to the palace chapel to try to find comfort and answers. When the old priest takes him to a shrine his mother had built, he gets more than he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At the Shrine of Margaret and Mary

**Author's Note:**

> Post 4x09 AU, Christian AU
> 
> This came out of my frustration that a story set in the middle ages and where many of the characters are fighting the "old religion" would make no mention of the new one that replaced it. I feel like the use of Christian imagery and figures could have added a depth to Camelot's culture and wanted to play around with that idea a bit.
> 
> This is my first attempt at writing fiction in years - so, all my apologies.
> 
> (After writing I realized "A Herald of a New Age" with the druid shrine was episode 4x10, but this is unrelated to that.)

Not again. Arthur thought realizing where he was. Damn. Somehow every walk since her banishment led here – to her front door. 

No matter how wide a berth he tried to give it, he had founded himself on this street at least once a day in his rounds through the town. Perhaps he should put an end to these walks? His father had never felt the need to personally patrol the streets – but then Uther had never felt as responsible for each of his subjects’ lives as he did. 

And if he were to stop, what else would he do with his time? Every ride found him back at the spot where they had picnicked. Every stone of his castle seemed to echo with memories of her. In the courtyard, he felt her weight against him as she knocked him to the ground, protecting him. In his bedroom he felt her hand gently dab a damp cloth across his brow and across his chest. When he sat at his table, he’d suddenly feel her hand on his shoulder. When he looked out the window he thought he saw her. His throne room seemed empty. His council chamber was now just a reminder of her betrayal ( - and yet, he still flinched when he thought of the look of fear on her face when he grabbed her arms and the tears pouring from her eyes as he pronounced his sentence.) Worst of all, however, were the stairs and passageways they had once dragged each other into for fleeting exchanges of kisses and secrets and fears and dreams. 

Even trying to attend to his duties was filled with reminders of her because of this damn house. With Gwen banished, as someone had brought to his attention, her lease was now void. A new tenant should be found not only as a source of income for the palace but also because it would make a good residence for one of his subjects. But he had sworn to Gwen it was hers for life and while she could no longer come anywhere near it, he didn’t want to break his word. It seemed a breech too far. There was such an air of finality about it. She had been planning on leaving it anyway, but should he hand it over to someone else without her permission? 

He shook the jumbled thoughts from his head and racked his brain for somewhere safe, somewhere where he wouldn’t feel her absence so keenly. And suddenly he knew the place: the chapel, only frequented by the Pendragons and the priests. He had never run into Gwen there.

\-------------------

“Sire?” a voice called out as he entered the chapel. 

“Don’t call me that,” Arthur demanded of the old priest. He couldn’t bear such formality and subordination from his former tutor, who had scolded him for his poor Latin and comforted him when his father was especially harsh. 

“What should I call you then: my boy? My son?” he offered, softening as he registered the grief on Arthur’s face. He looked like he was in need of a distraction.

“Either would do.”

“You know, there’s a part of this chapel you’ve never seen, my boy.”

“That’s impossible! I was here every day from the time I was 5 until I came of age. I know the chapel better than any other part of the castle.”

“And still it has its secrets. I see I have your attention now. Follow me.” 

He led Arthur outside to a small boarded up space in the exterior wall of the chapel. “Remove the wood,” he instructed. The king could not remember the last time he had been talked to in this manner. Surely before his father’s illness. He didn’t mind. He followed the orders, almost happy to not have to make a decision, to do as he was told, like a child. He removed the boards weakened by exposure with little difficulty, uncovering a small grotto. Inside was a small alter covered in dust and half melted candles. Above the altar hung two mosaics: one a familiar image of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the other a woman clutching a cross and standing over a dragon. A faded cushion sat on the small step up to the altar. 

“Your mother always had a special devotion to Mary, which you share, but she had heard of St. Margaret from a sailor who had come from the East. Do you know much of St. Margaret, my boy?”

Arthur shook his head and he continued: “St. Margaret of Antioch refused her whole life to bow to the false religions, even when her father abandoned her, even when she was thrown in prison by a man who wanted to make her his own. A demon in the form of a dragon devoured her there, but she made the Sign of the Cross, and the foul beast could not bear the prodding at its belly. It burst apart and she was free. Then she defeated the devil himself with her bare hands. At her execution, she promised that if any woman should seek her aid in childbirth and that she would protect the woman’s child. Your mother’s final words were a prayer for the help of these two women whose images are before you.

“Your father could not bear the sight of this shrine but he did not wish to disturb it. Your mother would not have wanted it destroyed and he owed the Blessed Virgin and St. Margaret too much. They protected you in your infancy and, I believe, continue to watch over you.” 

After a moment’s silence, Arthur responded, “I wish I had known this. I feel I’ve been neglectful.” 

“No, matter. They seem like kindly, understanding souls, my boy. You will never change in this regard, will you? You have always punished yourself for not knowing what you have had no opportunity to know.”

“But I will have her added to my shield. I have neglected too much, recently, but now the … distractions… are gone.” 

“There would be no harm in it, I suppose.”

Silence fell over the pair. The old priest studied his former pupil’s face. Watching the familiar change of expressions as Arthur’s focus shifted from the immediate to whatever was preying on his mind. The younger man was dutiful and good-hearted, but along with those positive traits he had a worrying one: he saw himself as capable of doing only wrong and the world as full of punishments. Only two people had suffered from his being in love: Arthur, himself, and the girl -and that was on account of the circumstances rather than on account of the love itself. In fact, while Arthur had always been kind and merciful, the priest could not help but notice that his boyish arrogance was being replaced by a humility and consideration no king of Camelot had possessed in the old man’s lifetime. 

“You know I’ve just recalled” he waited for Arthur to look back up again and steadied his voice as if passing on just one more of the countless pieces of information he had told the young man over the years “she also protects exiles, as she was exiled by her father for her love of the one true God.”

“Exiles? I don’t wish to speak of this.” Arthur seemed to be trying to harden his voice, but it seemed more childishly stubborn to the old man than anything else.

“Good thing I am under strict orders not to treat you as a king and can disregard your wishes.” Arthur looked up, slightly shocked, but the expression quickly faded. “And having heard the tale does you good. All who hear of her courage and love her for it will be granted forgiveness for their sins.”

“Alright, Father. Would you leave me here to pray?” 

“Of course, my son.” 

Arthur knelt, not on the cushion, but on the stone step, bowed his head, and clasped his hands together. The old priest pressed his hand to the young man’s shoulder momentarily before leaving him. He sent one of the younger priests to bring Arthur a taper candle. Arthur accepted it without a word and lit the candles before returning to his place. 

He prayed for guidance, for continued protection, for understanding.

He was so torn. He wanted Gwen back in his arms, but was that right? Gwen had spoken of being unable to control her feelings for Lancelot and he had understood. He was drawn to her, like a moth to a flame, no matter the objections his mind raised. Would it be a holy union, beneficial to himself and his kingdom, or were these merely feelings of lust? Part of him wanted to be able to dismiss his feelings so easily –but he still believed that Camelot needed her as its queen and that he needed her by his side, still knew that his feelings for her were true. But what of hers? He had told Merlin he could never trust her, but during this time without her had lived in anguish and he didn’t know what to do without her counsel. He looked up at the images in front of him and the candles lit as offerings and begged for advice and consolation, for the wise words of the mother he had never known.

He knelt in this manner for hours, never moving, as the night grew colder and the candles burned lower and lower and one by one flickered out – yet the shrine did not completely darken.

“Arthur? Are you asleep?” asked a woman’s voice with touch of laughter. Arthur looked up shocked. Standing in front of him were three figures. In the center of the group was a woman dressed in a blue and white gown decorated with gold. Bright light shone from her. Roses tumbled from her hair but seemed to melt as they touched the ground like snowflakes on a warm palm. A man stood to her left, with an arm wrapped around her shoulders. To her right was a second woman, dressed in red, a cross in her hands.   
Arthur’s eyes flew from the trio to the paintings and back again. Their appearances were not identical – and yet he was certain. Something like fear filled Arthur and he fell to the ground, prostrating himself in front of the three saints. “Mary, Blessed Virgin, who is the Queen of heaven, I am your humble servant.”

“Arthur. Get up. There is no reason to be afraid of me or my companions. We came to offer our help not request your service.” He rose, but only to his knees.

“Why are you still on your knees, Arthur? I am not only ‘Queen’ but also ‘Mother’ to you and to all.”

Arthur stood and yet the three appeared larger than him, though the women could have been no taller than Gwen.

“Arthur, Margaret and I were not deaf to your mother’s cries. Margaret has prayed for your health from birth. And I have beseeched my Son for your protection in battle.”

“Th.. thank you” he stammered out, bowing. “I am most grateful.” Mary smiled down at him.

“But Guinevere is under our protection, as well,” she added more sternly. “She is my daughter who stands falsely accused of willful adultery by those who do not understand the truth of what they have seen and heard -much like I was.” Joseph’s hand tightened on her shoulder.

“She wanders in exile, but her heart remains faithful to you and to Camelot no matter what she faces” said St. Margaret. “She will become a sheep pursued by wolves, a sparrow ensnared in a net, but she will never be alone. St. Christopher and I will always be at her side.”

“I do not understand.” Arthur’s eyes darted between the two women. Fear for Gwen mixed with his confusion. Falsely accused? Faithful? And yet the idea of her in danger, blotted out every question. Only the transfixing apparitions in front of him kept him from rushing across the castle to the stables with no regard for the late hour or his ignorance of the direction she had set off in.

“Arthur, a man’s pride is important, but it can be blinding. In this case you have misjudged,” said Joseph. “Do not let trials, misunderstandings, or the fear of gossip cut you off from someone who not only has helped you grow into the man and king you are today and saved your life countless times, but who has also made life joyful and worthwhile for you. You have been blessed with two such people by your side, but if you push either away, you cannot prosper.”

“Two? But who is the second?”

“Arthur, put your foolish days behind you,” sighed Joseph. “See the world as it truly is.”

Like a flash he pictured Merlin in his mind, but surely not. His servant should not be all those things to him and yet Merlin was. He was counsel and companion and comfort when Arthur did not feel himself worthy of those things even from the lowliest creature. He shook the image out of his head, surely not. Margaret smiled at him. “The truest love can come from the most unlikely places and be denied by the most natural. A poor woman became my fostermother when my father threw me out. Kings from afar presented gifts to a baby that filled his fosterfather’s family with dread and doubt. Worldly rank means nothing in the Kingdom of God.”

“But you will protect Guinevere – as much as possible? I truly never wanted anything bad to happen to her. She is –was- IS the most precious thing to me.”

“Of course, my son,” answered Mary, pressing her hand to his cheek. It was as warm and comforting and full of love as the same gesture was from Gwen, but different as well. He had felt the palest echo of it once before from the shade of his mother summoned by Morgause. Was this what the love of a mother felt like?

“Margaret, return to her side. Joseph remain with Arthur.” She instructed her companions. “And I will be the bridge between the two of you while you are separated and continue to watch over you when you are back together as I have always done.”

“Thank you, my Lady – my Mother.” 

Mary smiled down at him as the other two disappeared before fading herself, leaving him in total darkness. He returned to his knees, lifting his hands and his face to Heaven in prayer.

It was not long before a pale line of light appeared on the horizon behind him, telling of dawn’s approach.

\--------

“There you are! The priest said I could find you here. Have you been out here all night?!”

Merlin exclaimed, rushing into the grotto and pulling Arthur up by the arm.

“I … I must have fallen asleep” answered Arthur turning to his servant, trying to stretch after the uncomfortable position in which he’d spent the night. His head swam. Had three saints really appeared to him in the night? Had it all been a dream? 

“What’s that?” Merlin pointed further into the shrine now behind Arthur’s back.

“What’s what, Merlin?”

“That! It’s not the season for roses! Where did this come from? It doesn’t even look like the roses that grow in the castle gardens -it doesn’t have thorns. We must show Gaius!” 

He lifted a single thornless rose from the altar.

“Give that to me,” Arthur snapped, snatching it from Merlin’s hand. “Let’s go. There’s business to attend to.” He immediately sent Merlin on his way to make preparations for a search party -his uncle and his people would have to learn to accept his decision – before heading back to his chambers alone. 

\---

He opened the small box that had sat on his desk every day for several years. Inside was a simple white scrap of cloth. Just looking at it he could remember the day Gwen had presented him with it: the chaste kiss and the pain of the joust, her hand pressed against his chest as she tried to stop the bleeding and pleaded with him to be reasonable, her smile when he decided his victory would be a secret between the two of them (well, the three of them), her warmth by his side as they applauded “Sir William.” 

The door opened and Merlin entered. “Sire, preparations are underway. Your horses and the most loyal of your knights will soon be ready. The court painter has promised to work through the day and night to finish the addition to your shield by dawn tomorrow. He says he will repaint it in more detail when we return and there’s more time… Arthur, are you sure you’re alright?” 

Arthur fiddled with the white cloth Gwen had given him so long ago, when their love was untainted but also unproven. So much had happened in the intervening years, but he was now more sure of her than ever. “I’m fine, Merlin. Just one more thing – help me dress in fresh clothing. And from now on, use this to bind the rose to my arm under my armor.”

“But won’t the rose be crushed?”

“I don’t think that will be an issue.”

**Author's Note:**

> Source:
> 
> Clayton, Mary, and Hugh Magennis. The Old English Lives of St Margaret. Cambridge Studies in Anglo-Saxon England 9. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994.  
> \- My source for the specifics of the legends as well as some of the imagery (i.e. the description of Gwen as a lamb and a sparrow)  
> \- Also NB I had to take some liberties about when exactly the legend of St. Margaret reached England, but "Merlin" and Arthurian legend more generally does the same with other cultural aspects, so just FYI


End file.
